


A Game of Tomes

by Ashesintheair



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Johannes Cabal - Jonathan L. Howard
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:15:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24752248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashesintheair/pseuds/Ashesintheair
Summary: The corpses of Westeros do not seem to stay quite as dead as those in other worlds. This is of some interest to Johannes Cabal, a necromancer of some little infamy.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	A Game of Tomes

“Stop harrassing me woman! I will not name your damned brother as my Hand!”

“Ned Stark made it clear that he wanted no honours from you. Will you sit and moon like a jilted maid, hoping her love will come back?” Cersei retorted with a cool look.

“I will do nothing until after the hunt, damn you,” Robert muttered, looking up in surprise when the door swung in.

The man framed in the doorway was odd looking, to their eyes at any rate. His clothes were as black as a crow’s, but he was neat from top to toe. His hair was short and blonde, and he carried a bag in one hand, with a cane looped through the straps.

“Not another bloody Lannister,” Robert muttered.

Johannes Cabal ignored the King for a moment - he had met kings before. Or at least, he had a passing acquaintence with them. Usually something along the lines of ‘Guards! After that man!’. It was vexing, but bookish monarchs cropped up from time to time, gathering books around them like blue blooded, nest building birds. Sometimes it turned out to be an excuse to collect the kind of books that heavily featured naked young women. Sometimes they amateurishly dabbled in some of the more excitable kind of black magic - also featuring naked young women - and had the misfortune to possess a book that would further Cabal’s research. It didn’t stay in their collection for long. This particular monarch didn’t look as though he had ever seen a book. If he had, he probably would have eaten it.

Cabal’s gaze darted quickly about the room. It had taken a not inconsiderable amount of effort to reach this place, but reports suggested that there was a certain amount of very successful necromancy going on, and so it had been worth the trouble. It seemed it was too much to ask that some half-way civilised place would unlock the secret of death.

“Johannes Cabal,” he introduced himself quickly. “I’m looking for a young man by the name of Dondarrion.”

“What? You barge in here and bother me with this nonsense? Go and bother my small council, make them earn their keep!” Robert roared.

“I confess, I’m not much used to dealing with underlings. I find going straight to the top usually saves on time.”

Robert ignored him and picked up a wineskin from the table. “I’m going hunting,” he grumbled.

Cabal sighed and lifted the Webley .577 until it was level with Robert’s head. He despised violence, and only reluctantly lived a life that left death and injury in his wake. And most of it was even necessary, as he tried only to limit it to when people were trying to kill him, or irritated him; sometimes both at the same time. But then, violence seemed to be a way of life here, if the bruise that blossomed over the woman’s cheek was anything to go by.

He had done more than a little research before his trip. It was difficult to feel anything but disgust for a man who claimed that the love of his life lay dead, and yet didn’t do everything in his power to seek a cure for it. Honestly, it wasn’t as if he had even tried. And he certainly had an unseemly keenness for the winecup.

There was no last warning, no pithy one-liner as he pulled the trigger. Cabal didn’t trouble to even look at Robert’s body, but moved on to the next problem.

He looked over at the woman and his eyes narrowed. He didn’t like leaving enemies behind him - it was always more trouble than it was worth. But her hair was gold and the combination of that and the lion on the pendant around her neck reminded him uncomfortably of Miss Barrow.

He focussed on the pedant until the troubling feeling passed.

“Animal symbology. Ridiculous, really. Lions, stags… It all smacks of machismo. Dreamed up by men who had never bothered to do any basic reseach. Perhaps if they had, they would have realised that the lionness does the majority of the work.” He muttered it, mostly to himself.

His finger still stubbornly refused to move and he rationalised it immediately. Of course, the last thing he needed was the realm in even more turmoil. If he removed her as well, it would likely only create more trouble.

Cersei had been badly shocked by the noise, by the sudden… explosion? She didn’t know how to think of it. But a cursory glance at Robert was enough to tell her that he was dead. The ringing in her ears subsided long enough for her to hear what the odd man was saying and her mouth curved into something approaching a smile at the last part. Her eyes found his, still fixed on her and calculating, and they didn’t leave when half the Kingsguard came charging in.

She didn’t know how it had happened, couldn’t term it in any words that she knew, but she knew that she could die just as surely as Robert had, and that this man seemed of a mind to do it. She dismissed any thought of seduction - as the king’s extremely recent widow, and now in front of an audience, that wasn’t likely to work out well. Which was something of a shame, because he wasn’t uncomely and the way his eyes had lingered on her hair made her wonder if he would be amenable. Instead, she raised her voice.

“Ser Boros?” Her voice was clear, and her gaze didn’t shift. “The King has sadly passed away. He had an accident while he was hunting.”

Cabal gave her a thin smile - at least, he assumed it probably came out as a smile. He didn’t have much practise - but didn’t lower the Webley. Not just yet.

“But, my Queen, he-”

“An accident while hunting,” she said again firmly.

Ser Boros nodded, hesitantly at first. “We’ll fetch the Silent Sisters, Your Grace.”

As they left, Cabal lowered the pistol. “Dondarrion?” he asked again.

“Ned Stark sent him on a fool’s errand into the Riverlands. He may already be dead.”

He gave a short laugh. “Of that, madam, I am certain.”

Finding a well of courage somewhere, and clutching her hands in front of her to keep them from shaking still with the shock of the last ten minutes, she asked a question. “What do you want from him?”

It caught Cabal in an odd mood, one where he was inclined to answer while he tucked the Webley away in the Gladstone bag. “I have reason to believe he may help me in my research. And failing that, I hear he has a priest of R'hllor with him. Perhaps at the very least, he has some kind of holy book I can steal. An instruction manual is too much to hope for, but I’ve waded through worse prose than whatever this R'hllor can spit out.”

“Why?”

The words were more flamboyent than the ones he would usually have chosen, but the place seemed to drag them up and out of his throat. It was a little revolting to put it in such a way, but the sentiment was at least apt, and travel between worlds demanded that one conform to at least some of the rules.

_“The things I do for love.”_


End file.
